Dave had eaten dinner with me and gone off to another meeting of his maestros. To look, he said, for the silver lining of the silver screen.
Not even mentioning Paul.
Not seeming to be affected....
Paul was in a hospital.
A private hospital. The cops had wanted to send him to Bellevue for observation. But Dave had persuaded them and arranged to have my nephew taken on a stretcher down the service elevator and transported by ambulance to a safe place.
I'd called Ricky and told her about it. Told her again that I'd be back in Buffalo by the following evening, in all likelihood.
And I'd called Karen, my daughter, and warned her of what she would see and read when the morning papers reached her country doorstep in Connecticut.
Nine o'clock.
The next day would be Monday.